


An Indifferent Attitude Towards Murder

by aestheticsmonster



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: 19th Century, Angst, Angst and Feels, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Female Character, Blood and Gore, Bloodlust, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon LGBTQ Character, Canon LGBTQ Female Character, Canon Trans Character, England (Country), F/F, Female Characters, Female Homosexuality, Female Protagonist, Female Relationships, Heavy Angst, Historical, Historical Fantasy, Hurt No Comfort, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Themes, London, Minor Original Character(s), Murder, Murderers, Original Character(s), Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7607704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aestheticsmonster/pseuds/aestheticsmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Certainly not Grell's idea of real fun - bloodshed was entertaining to twisted creatures like them, who saw through shattered glass, so only the worst parts of reality were visible - but it was unexpected, and that was what made Angelina so compelling."</p><p>Grell Sutcliff - trans woman, Grim Reaper, and flamboyant, insecure, overemotional mess - has always had a craving for blood. When she is dispatched to Victorian era London on an assignment, she joins a mysterious noblewoman in a murder spree and the two become known as the infamous Jack the Ripper. However, their strictly "professional" relationship soon spirals into a fatally consuming love affair, one that might cause them to completely destroy each other.</p><p>This is the same book as the one I published on Wattpad with the same title, under the username personalaesthetic, besides some minor edits which I will eventually also change the Wattpad version to match. You can find more of my work there and my art on my tumblr aestheticsmonster.tumblr.com</p><p>Thank you for all your love and support! Please keep commenting, giving kudos, etc. so I can keep writing <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i: reminisce

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: The characters (besides minor original characters) and story belong to Yana Toboso.  
> Content Warning: graphic depictions of violence, death, and self harm

Grell Sutcliff had never thought much of humans.

They were below her, and not worth even a second of her torturously never-ending time. They were stubbornly optimistic, hopelessly romantic - _just like she was_ \- oblivious to the ways of the world. They believed those who did good deeds would live a fulfilled life and go to Heaven, and those who did wrong would be punished and given a second chance to atone.

Now, you may be thinking that Grell Sutcliff is an extremely arrogant individual, which she was, but she _was_ entitled to her opinions. 

In the life she knew, pure souls were not sent to paradise and tainted ones to damnation.

In the life she knew, it didn't matter what you did or what sort of person you were.

In the life she knew, all souls had the same destiny, to be sent to cold, stoic, indifferent creatures - _and she was one of them_ \- that collected the soul and cast the body and mind into an equally unforgiving oblivion.

But perhaps, maybe - _definitely_ \- she was simply envious. Envious that humans still believed in such a kind and lenient world and envious that maybe, just maybe, such a world did exist and she would never be able to reach it.

So she tore at her skin and burst open her veins and welcomed the pain. She drowned herself in the cacophony of terror and blades and blood and adrenaline, jumping onto every opportunity to hurt someone - _to hurt herself_ \- to feel something, to be someone.

And the morning after, she would always ask herself, _what have I_ done?

And she would do it.

_All._

_Over._

_Again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos, comments, etc. are very appreciated!


	2. ii: impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grell is dispatched to London on an assignment, and not happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deviates slightly from canon, as there isn't very much information of this part of the story in the original work.

_"What?"_

"You'll be dispatched to London," William repeated.

"But London is one of the biggest cities - it probably has the highest death count!" Grell protested, "Wi- _ill,_ it's going to take positively for- _ever_ to collect all the souls, and I couldn't possibly do it all _alone_ -"

"And that is exactly why you're stationed there," said William, his facial expression stoic and perpetual. "You've gotten our department into trouble countless times before and this will _hopefully_ teach you a lesson."

The dispatch manager pushed his glasses up the bridge of his sculpted nose and muttered under his breath, "probably not."

Grell ignored his last sentence and pouted. Will's expression didn't change. She grabbed her assignment papers and turned on her heel with flounces of fabric floating behind her. She hoped that made William feel guilty.

But as he had said, probably not.

She grabbed her beloved chainsaw from the weapons archive and said goodbye to the few other Grim Reapers she knew.

\--------------------

Grell had only been to London once before, and that was almost a century ago, when she was still a reaper in training - when she'd finally admitted to herself that she wasn't a man and had never been.

Now it was much more developed, polluted with perfumes and silks in one part, and rags and unwanted children in another. And Grell was in charge of the latter. Sighing dramatically, she decided to visit a tailor's shop to indulge herself - although she was unable to purchase anything of such decadence.

The nearest shop was on a small avenue off of the crowded main boulevards full of carriages and aristocrats. The window display said "HOPKINS" in curling lettering and showed stylish red and black dresses in fall and winter fashion, with gorgeously paneled bodices and meticulous embroidery and silk roses.

Grell pushed open the door as a bell chimed, announcing her presence.

"Hello?"

No answer.

Inside the small shop were mannequins dressed in elegant evening gowns of silk, lace, satin, and chiffon, of pastels and deep jewel tones. An array of children's day clothing was draped on several petite mannequins, all lined up in a row. Various hats decorated with peacock feathers and imitation roses tilted aesthetically on eyeless faces.

Further inside the shop, there was an imported changing screen, with embroidery techniques and styles unique to China. Grell saw two curvaceous silhouettes behind it; one was a customer being fitted into a gown and the other was a woman helping her into it. Judging by the size of the shop, the only staff would be the tailor, so it must have been the seamstress herself. She caught a glimpse of the customer as her heard peeked out on one side of the screen.

She had bright red hair twisted in an elaborate braided bun. Voluminous lashed framed her amber eyes.

For the love of all things morbid and macabre, _her eyes._

They burned with an intensity and reserved power, but beneath all the vivaciousness and fiery passion was an emptiness. Her eyes were no longer eyes but voids. Just from that split second, Grell could tell this woman had seen death. 

And enjoyed it - _just like she had._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much for reading!


	3. iii: delusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bloodshed begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: this chapter is heavily centered around death, suicide, and self harm.

Grell had just finished collecting the day's souls. It was exhausting, excruciating work, looking past a dead person's previous life - all their hopes and dreams and fears and memories, and not pity but empathize. She could feel their lives spinning past her; she could feel their love and pain and happiness.

She could revive them if she wished. But she couldn't - _wouldn't._ Altering the cycle of life was reserved for only the most brilliant - _or the most privileged._

Her work was punishment; to feel deeply and to have the only emotion she ever felt whisked away into oblivion.

But it was only fair - _she deserved it._

They all did. Years, maybe even centuries ago, she'd slit her wrists. She couldn't even remember what for. And once she died, she was placed into this horrid job, to watch people die over and over just like she had, to never escape from death - just like she'd wanted. Or so she'd thought.

_No. Shut up._ Grell shook her head furiously, sending ripples throughout a mass of crimson locks. That was perhaps her greatest weakness. Overthinking everything, especially the things that she knew she wasn't supposed to think about.

In an effort to further shake her thoughts, Grell agitatedly jumped onto the roof of a deteriorating manor-house. It was late, she could see the moon, dirtied by city smog, and the stars, blotted out by buildings and brown clouds. Through the sheen of pollution, the moon took on a reddish hue, a circle of torn, bloodstained silk.

She lightly jogged across the roof, jumped gracefully onto the next, then continued her way. She didn't know why or where she was going and she didn't care.

Then, those horrible, piercing sounds - a small moan as a cacophony of tearing flesh erupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a thank you to you, the reader.  
> You can find me on Wattpad (personalaesthetic) and tumblr (aestheticsmonster).


	4. iv: better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Witnessing murder was never easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: graphic depictions of violence and murder

Sitting cross-legged on the roof of an abandoned house, Grell looked down at the busy Londoners. Always rushing to attend to affairs, bustling to business, caring for children - they always had something to do, hm?

For once, Grell wasn't overthinking. In fact, she was thinking of nothing at all. Last night had shaken her deeply, leaving her disturbed yet pleasured, in an odd way.

She'd heard the tearing of muscle in the early morning, before dawn had even broken. True to her duty, she had sprinted towards the scene.

A well-figured woman had lain bleeding from her neck on the crude cobblestone, her clothes disturbed and layers tangled. And beside her, another figure in a black women's overcoat had stood stiff and unmoving.

She'd clutched a shining scalpel in her hand. Blood had been splattered throughout her hair, accentuating its deep hue - _blood made everything seem just a bit better, didn't it?_

Behind her was a surgeon's kit that had been fitted with an arrangement of knives, scalpels, surgical scissors, bone saws, and a collection of other blades - _beautiful, tempting toys._

The late August winds had whipped her clothes about her body. Grell had silently prowled to the other side of the roof to get a better glimpse of the scene. She'd immediately regretted it.

The killer was the woman from the tailor's shop.

The murderess had looked devastating. Her eyes had been alight with madness, her mouth contorted into an awful grin. She then had hesitated no longer and plunged her scalpel into the victim's flesh once again. The woman had torn the knife across the neck so gracelessly the victim's head almost fell off.

Grell had gagged and ducked behind the roof. She'd waited for her breathing to slow, but it remained fluttering and frantic like a butterfly trapped in a spider's web. Her forehead had been slick with perspiration and her lips dry and disgusting. She'd felt sick to her stomach, her lungs heaving with effort - _but she had enjoyed it._

And despite the horrible feeling the sight gave her, she'd lifted her head and opened her eyes to watch more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first canonical victim of Jack the Ripper was Mary Ann "Polly" Nichols, a 43-year old prostitute living in the Whitechapel district of London. She was found at about 3:40 AM of August 31 1888, and a doctor who arrived at the scene at about 4 AM states that she could not have been dead for more than half an hour.


	5. v: accomplice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second murder and a first meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: graphic depictions of violence

"I've been observing you."

Grell was perched atop a cathedral spire, gazing down at the murderess below her. She had just killed her second - another prostitute - by strangling her to death. The prostitute had struggled and fought back, but was then struck on her face and stabbed through her neck. Wasting no time, the killer had snatched a scalpel from her surgeon's kit, and with a professional skill even Grell admired she'd sliced into the woman's lower abdomen and cut out her womb. Presently the organ was clenched in the killer's fist as she glared up at the Grim Reaper.

"Goodness me, you really went to town on her," Grell continued, lifting herself up so she was standing upon the spire. "Thanks to you, the Death List in this area is filled to the brim. Makes me real busy indeed...

"I can understand your feelings...It is only right that women like _them_ should die," Grell crooned as she jumped from the church tower. Her boot heels clicked as they struck the worn cobblestone.

"Like you, I also want a child," Grell said quite flamboyantly as she stalked over to the murderess.

It wasn't difficult to guess her motive. It was rather obvious - from the victims' professions to the killer's sex to the organ she specifically removed. She enveloped the killer in a bizarre embrace, letting the blood stain her hair and clothing - _and her soul._

"But I can't have my wish fulfilled since I am male. You and I...we're two peas in a pod."

Grell pulled away and stared the woman in the eye, displaying her predator's teeth in a grotesque grin.

"Allow me to...assist you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All dialogue in this chapter is canon, from both the Yen Press version of the manga and the kuroshitsuji.org one.
> 
> Sorry for the short chapter, but thank you so much for reading! If you don't want to wait for the next chapter, you can always head over to my Wattpad personalaesthetic for the next, albeit slightly different, chapters.


	6. vi: criminals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's pretty for a murderer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: mentions of death and gore, implied dysphoria, stalking.

If one thing was to be said, it was that the killer was an _extremely_ handsome woman.

She had a feminine silhouette, with delicately flared hips and a well-endowed chest that Grell envied so. Silky crimson locks spilled out of a bun over rounded shoulders and down an elegantly curved back.

But the most fascinating thing about her was her obliviousness. You could tell from first glance that she both glorified and despised herself - _just like Grell._

"Why aren't you dead?" was the first thing she asked, most likely wondering about the at least 20-foot drop from the cathedral spire.

"Oh, darling, there's so much more important things than that," Grell remarked. "Such as...being at the scene of the crime. You do realize that by now most people in this slum are waking, yes? It's past five in the morning."

"Fuck," the killer muttered. She immediately turned and wiped her blades on an already-stained cloth she drew from her surgeon's kit, and slid her knifes into the straps of the kit. The case clicked shut, and the murderess swept it up and started striding away. Her boots clicked against the cobblestone as the fog swept around her.

Grell followed her down the street and into the alleyways.

"Please stop following me," she called in a tense voice, not bothering so much as to look back at Grell.

She couldn't risk confronting her stalker and making too much noise and she couldn't be followed forever or take this strange - being - to her home. And obviously she couldn't let the stalker just do whatever they - _it?_ \- pleased; what if they went to Scotland Yard?

Grell was quite skilled at detecting others' thoughts of her - especially the negative ones. _Not that she ever acted upon it._

"I think your motive at the moment is to create an alibi, yes? Clean off the blood and get back home, hm?"

The murderess continued striding irritably and the walk continued in silence far approximately 15 minutes. When she arrived at the Tower of London, a brougham drawn by two thoroughbreds was parked the sidewalk, presumably waiting for her. She must have had quite some prestige to own a private brougham, Grell mused.

The noblewoman - Grell was assuming she was nobility to live in such luxury - quickly muttered a few words to the driver and jumped in the cab. She nonchalantly tossed her surgeon's kit onto the plush velvet seat across from her and shrugged her bloodstained coat off. Luckily it was a dark color, so bloodstains were hard to see. She was quite intelligent for a rich woman.

The madame patted the seat next to her.

"Well, are you coming?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was actually no canon information about this part of the story, so I'll just be freelancing this part.  
> I'm not exactly sure which murder it was that Grell and the madame first met, but I'm assuming it was the second canonical Jack the Ripper murder, since Grell said she'd already killed at least one person. The timeline I used is http://akumadeenglish.tumblr.com/post/109219691272/timeline-black-butler-1830-1899 but it states Grell and the madame met in December 1885 (after Ciel's 10th birthday). However, the canonical Whitechapel murders (including but not limited to the Jack the Ripper murders) occurred in 1888.


	7. vii: nobility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems that with humans, the richer, the brattier.  
> Content Warning: drugs mention

The madame quickly leaned to her guest's side and pinched her skin between her manicured nails.

Grell didn't exactly feel anything - being the epitome of death did come with some benefits, including diminished sensitivity to pain, _and more of the tendency to cause it_ \- but still tossed her hair indignantly.

"What the hell was that for?"

"You're not...human, are you?"

This one was quite crass for nobility, Grell thought, rather unkindly. But still intelligent. Her skill in violence pointed to a degree in medicine or at least some form of advanced knowledge of anatomy And for a rich woman to even dare pursue a higher education was quite the spectacle. And of course, Grell could not help but to admire her violence, her agility, her penchant for pain - _and not just others'._

Grell was fascinated, to say the least.

"Well, of course not, _darling._ " Grell rolled out the last word. She smiled blandly at the woman beside her.

"The term is Grim Reaper, officially, at least. But god of Death, Death itself, the epitome of death, immortals, et cetera, are also quite common. Honestly, it just depends on how frivolous you'd like to sound."

God, she was rambling. Why was she rambling? Was she nervous? She couldn't be nervous, not about a human, surely? But thank the gods - not herself - she couldn't sweat or blush, obviously - no human bodily functions.

But human functions or not, Grell could tell this woman was something special. She wasn't a genius obviously, not a writer or musician or the like, not a hero or a philanthropist or such, but something about her just struck a chord on Grell's minuscule heart strings.

Maybe it was pity, or jealousy, or maybe even empathy. But maybe it was simple. _Maybe it was madness._

But she did know that this woman was a serial killer. She'd killed at least two women out of selfish rage and showed absolutely no remorse. After the murders, she'd looked like a drug addict after their latest fix. Euphoric. Dreaming. Enraptured.

Beautiful.

Beautiful, and terrible.

Grell wouldn't say that the madame was beautiful _in spite_ of her sins. It seemed more like she was beautiful _because_ of them.

"So, what is the 'epitome of death' doing in London?"

"Business. It's boring, I don't think you'd take much interest in such matters." The man who happened to be her boss, however, he was another matter.

"Is that why you're stalking me? Out of boredom?"

"Well, your actions are against our mandates, but I don't particularly care about that" - the madame raised an eyebrow and smiled shrewdly - "although I will most definitely be suspended if my superior discovers I neglected to report these - hobbies of yours," she muttered under her breath.

Her _very_ handsome superior, in fact, who could coax any answer out of the gullible side of her mind, the one that believed in love and light and tragedy.

And now that gullible piece of her was thinking of him once again. But if she stopped thinking of him she would think of the equally handsome woman who was at no more than a forearm's length from her.

Too late.

"Then what sort of tedious business do you have here in the slums?"

"Ah, you know, overseeing the anticipated death of mortals. Making sure no unscheduled deaths occur," Grell said pointedly.

"All in good fun, _darling_ ," the noblewoman mimicked. She smiled, this time geniunely.

Grell was rather shocked, but kept her face stoic as usual. She'd become quite adept at it over the centuries. Hiding was a talent as far as she was concerned.

They'd arrived at a slightly dilapidated but continuously impressive upper class manor house. According to the nameplate on the gate, it was the Burnett family London residence. The coachman halted the horses and stepped out of the door of the brougham. He knocked on the door and assisted both women into the manor house. A petite maid in her late twenties opened the door.

"Welcome to the Burnett manor house, my lady," she said, addressing Grell.

Grell was always pleasantly surprised when she was addressed as "my lady".

"Welcome home, Madame Dalles."

Her minimal but self-sufficient staff of a maid, coachman, chef, and gardener hadn't blinked an eye at the stranger their lady had brought back, nor the fact that their lady had been out in the slums past midnight. Quite well-trained, Grell noted. She also noticed the noblewoman lacked a butler, the core staff member.

"Shall I take your briefcase, Madame? And your coats?"

"Yes, thank you, Genevieve. Clean my tools, will you?"

"Of course, milady."

The women peeled off their bloodstained coats, and the lady handed her briefcase to the maid. She and the rest of the staff bowed and briskly walked away.

"Quite posh for a serial killer, hmm?" Grell quipped.

"Benefits of marrying rich," the Madame Dalles replied flippantly, not missing a beat of their grotesque waltz.

"Who's the lucky man?" _Probably six feet under._ Grell had noticed she went by Dalles, not Burnett. She didn't wear any rings; if she did, Grell would have noticed the famed engagement rings of the Victorian upper class.

"Baron Burnett. Dead. I've been told I should get a... _replacement_ husband. As they say, a woman becomes less and less marriageable with age," the baroness said, with a hint of mischief and a pinch of guilt, "but a man rich enough and handsome enough has yet to court me."

Grell knew the woman did indeed need the money for the nobility she was and the looks she needed for the lustful creature in her, but the madame still gave another sarcastic smile, as if she was pure of heart.

Both of them knew the truth of that.

They were both _sinners_ , and they both knew it.


	8. viii: lustful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're awful, and they both know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: slightly nsfw, drug mentions, sex trafficking mentions, food mentions

_"Oh."_

A kiss upon the corner of the jaw.

A fist softly clenching her shirt collar.

A hand dragging her to private quarters.

"Whats this for?"

"It doesn't matter."

"You don't even know my name."

"I said, it doesn't matter."

"It's Grell, if you cared."

"Angelina, if _you_ cared."

Two could play this narcissistic chess game of lust.

"I don't. And neither do you."

"I truly don't. But I need you."

A meticulously plucked eyebrow raised skeptically in reply.

"I don't _need_ you," said with indignity that grated between shark-like teeth.

An obnoxious retort and a blatant lie.

"You're lying, Grell."

"Shut up and kiss me."

"I thought you'd never ask."

A languid, nihilistic kiss.

Both of them were still covered in drying blood, but neither of them cared. Blood was like carmine to Grell, it made everything just a bit better. The only difference was too much of the intense red made you looke like a clown but too much blood only made her look like the madwoman she was.

Layers of dark, filthy clothing coming off and layers of skin coming through.

What was the point of making brassieres and corsets and the like seductive if they were but a pain to remove during said seduction? Grell wondered. She gave an inward sigh, but she didn't really mind all that much. It had been too long since she last indulged herself, and the withdrawal was only getting worse with time.

Sighing and heavy breathing, lustful and loveless. They were pitiful even in pleasure, no? The thoughts Grell had during sex were always odd. Great minds thought alike, or rather, _great murderers think alike_. But the madame was able to take her mind off of - well, everything. She was good for a woman who was widowed years ago.

One night.

That was all Grell thought they'd agreed on. She indeed had satisfied her lust for a time. But the mess they would get into was more like one nightmare.

\--------------------

The bleak London sun glimpsed through the clouds Grell was slowly becoming accustomed to. She still hated the grimness of London, even if she was part of it. The unstable dichotomy of poverty and nobility, the desperate lengths the poor would go to, the insatiable greed of the rich. The city was a bounty of opium and alcohol and sex, London was a nefarious world of its own, no cut-out good or bad, just people who did good things for bad reasons and bad things for good reasons.

Maybe that was why she was so fascinated by humans, especially, Londoners.

She crossed her legs again, swinging them in boredom. She'd long finished the breakfast Angelina's servants - _that was her name, yes?_ \- prepared for her; poached eggs, fatty bacon, heavily buttered breads, deviled kidneys, and Ceylon tea with too much sugar, milk, and honey, too much of everything, the way Grell liked everything. Including her lovers.

Speaking of such, Angelina - _memory could be poor for those who lived too long_ \- was either still sleeping or had decided this was a one night stand-murder kind of thing. Most likely the latter, but Grell was going to give up the privileges of upper-crust life. Fancy foods and tea and such nothings counted for _something_ in her book.

Immortals could still be quite materialistic.

"Good morning, Baroness," the chef's voice greeted.

The madame emerged from her bedroom dressed for business. And murder. A dark red lace dress with a high collar and a slight variation of the same braided bun she wore when Grell first laid eyes upon her. Strokes of carmine upon the lips and sheer layers of rouge on the apples of her cheeks complimented her strange amber eyes. Apparently her maid had quietly slipped into the room to help dress her lady.

She took a seat across from Grell at the banquet table and began her meal. The very definition of awkward. Both of them had plenty of things to say but too much pride to say them. They sat in silence as the baroness intentionally slurped her tea, breaking all codes of Victorian etiquette.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, the maid pulled her chair out for her and opened the surgeon's kit from the night before as she stood. The blades were stainless, free of blood. The maid closed the briefcase and handed it to the madame.

"Going to cut some more people up?" Grell asked, still staring at her empty tea cup.

"Yes, but this time I'm being paid to do so." Baroness Burnett smirked, the carmine on her lips glinting in the weak England sunlight.

A slight hesitation.

"Are you coming?"

The madame's face glowed with anticipation, daring on hope.

"London is calling, and I never disappoint."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> As always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated.  
> Questions? Feel free to send me an ask (aestheticsmonster.tumblr.com)


	9. ix: affinity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's strange to dip your toes in the water when you've already drowned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for being MIA! I'll definitely be updating more though. Thank you all for your patience.  
> Spoilers Ahead: This chapter includes background information from the anime OVA "The Tales of Will the Grim Reaper."  
> Content Warning: crude humor, mentions of murder, death, violence, xenophobia, and antisemitism

You have probably, at one point in your life, been disappointed about something - or someone - you believed should be much better. From yourself to others to your arithmetic grade to your lover's infidelity to plain, simple boredom.

Such was the case with a particularly sadistic Grim Reaper named Grell Sutcliff.

It turns out cutting up people - and even being paid for it - was actually quite _boring._

The Baroness Dalles - or rather, Doctor Dalles - was a strange sort of doctor. She aided everything from tuberculosis to childbirth to asthma. Apparently Angelina's sister and her son - whom she refused to say much more about - were asthmatic.

But Grell was quite fascinated by childbirth. Not the brats themselves - no, never, she could never care for nor take care of such a delicate, weak creature - but the concept was strange to her. And they all knew strangeness was beauty to Grell. A long period of illness of another _something_ inside the mother - _inside,_ growing, in a sort of grotesque kind of way. And the birth itself was the oddest concept Grell had ever stumbled upon. An awful, tearing pain and the risk of death to bring a new life.

The bitter irony entertained her.

So did the way Angelina hated it.

You could tell from the way she spoke of her nephew. She adored children. She thought they were beautiful, fragile creatures. Caring for them brought her a sense of peace. But she could never have her own. Her husband was dead, and she was infertile. Angelica refused to elaborate, but Grell could tell by her bitter tone it wasn't a condition she'd had from birth, nor something she would ever accept.

Every time Angelina assisted with a childbirth, her feelings about such were always different from the other doctors operating. They were mostly middle aged and middle-upper class men. They cared nothing for children. For them, it was another day on the job, just another patient who needed help and would pay good money for it.

But the baroness was different. She was already vaguely ostracized for being a woman, and a noble one at that. And she was the only one with the ability to bear children - at least, she had.

During the birth her face was a mask of stone, grieving for what she could never have. Bitterness and rage and sorrow, the expression she'd worn when they'd first met. But Grell noticed she was always the one to deliver the baby and clean it and comfort it. And, if the mother died, to hold it in her place. Her envy instantly became full on maternal instinct. She would sing to the crying babies, hush them with wistful lullaby and a sad smile.

Her colleagues - if they could be called that, for they thought they were above her - thought she was a delirious widow, avoiding the pressures of finer domestic life through an unapproved-of occupation. However, they couldn't deny her skill, especially with female patients and children, whom they had no desire to associate with.

Of course, Grell could not just sit there in the operating room - at least, not in plain sight. She rendered herself invisible, sometimes going out into the streets out of boredom and to complete her duties as a Grim Reaper.

During the short lunch break, Angelina left the hospital and Grell appeared by somehow silently jumping off the hospital roof, bouncing on the heels of her four inch boots, towering a combined six foot one over the doctor.

"Well, Baroness, which one of your infuriating coworkers would you kill?"

She jumped in surprise.

"What _is_ it with you and jumping off of roofs?" Angelina asked angrily.

"The world is my stage, _darling." And her starring role was that of a tragedy._

"Now," Grell continued, "answer the question. Who would you kill?"

"I don't have a motive, though; I only kill those ungrateful whores."

She paused.

"But they are admittedly quite similar. If I did...it would have to be Kenward. The one with the mustache that looks like pubic hair."

Grell barked out a raucous laugh.

"He's infuriating, yet boring at the same time. Complaining about his - who is actually rather kind; she's invited me over for tea several times - and his three sons and two daughters, whom he somehow convinced his wife to carry despite the fact that he hates children."

There was an edge of bitterness in her velvet voice.

"The sons he deems unsuccessful," she continued, "the eldest works for Scotland Yard, the second a painter, the youngest a. . . journalist, I believe."

"And the daughters?"

"According to him, whores. One is married to, and I do quote, 'an utter meater, the only kind of man deserving of her horse-like face.'"

Angelina gave a feminine giggle. She always paired the obscenest words with the most delicate laughter.

_Snips and snails and puppy dog tails. That's what little boys are made of. Sugar and spice and all things nice. That's what little girls are made of._

"The other is unmarried, I believe she is an artist sponsored by quite a few wealthy noblemen. Her work is very nice, actually, but Kenward thinks she sleeps around for sponsorships."

Grell raised an eyebrow. "Is she pretty, at least?"

"Well, she looks nothing like her father. Inherited all the good genes. She's doing quite well, actually, if it's true. I've been to her gallery once, an invitation from the mother, and the noblemen so far have all been quite handsome."

"So, will you kill today?"

"No. I've been making a name for myself out in Whitechapel. The papers say I'm unpredictable. I'm thinking of taunting Scotland Yard a bit further."

They began walking to who knows where, presumably some coffeehouse for luncheon.

"With what?" Grell gave subtle, almost mocking laugh. "Sending them a womb you cut out?"

"A letter, perhaps. Throw them off track" - she paused - "they've been calling me Leather Apron. I don't know why, but the police are running in circles. The public believes I'm an immigrant."

"Quite strange, hm?" Grell mused, "They'll grab onto anything."

"They think I could be a _butcher,_ did you know?" Angelina seemed to be a bit too happy for a murderer discussing leads on her identity in public. "Or some sort of. . . amateur surgeon. Quite a few Englishmen are agreeing I must be Jewish because they refuse to believe one of them could be capable of such violence."

"Do _you_ agree, Baroness?" Grell asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Oh, never." Angelina rolled her eyes. "Great Britain is only such a large empire because she is willing to take such harsh actions. It's just an excuse the powerful use to stay in power. But," she sighed, "I do dislike the riots said men are causing. It's quite disturbing."

The baroness' expensive heeled boots clacked against the street cobblestone. Grell's were quiet, mere pinpricks in this city of noise.

"Are you going to do anything about it?" the reaper inquired.

"What _can_ I do?"

"Isn't that just something 'the powerful' say to justify their lack of action?"

Another feminine laugh. Her eyes crinkled with hollow laughter. She was beautiful, truly. Awful and magnificent.

"Well, I can't just send a letter to the police saying, 'don't worry, it's not them, I'm one of you' or start a sort of campaign as a noblewoman," Angelina said, "it's too suspicious. A letter trying to divert attention will just draw more of it. A widowed baroness with no clear political motive will have the same effect. I'll just let it play out."

They arrived at a standard coffeehouse, where the baroness bought cheap coffee, cheese, and bread while Grell stood outside to avoid unnecessary attention. The coffee was watery, the cheese was plain, and the bread even more so. But for a noblewoman, Angelina didn’t seem to mind.

"I like the cheaper things," Angelina said, her legs swinging in an exaggerated manner as she sat down at one of the coffeehouse’s outside tables. "Being here helps me get out of the…noblewoman’s state of mind. The pettiness of it all." She winced as she took a sip of the hastily boiled coffee, or rather, bean water with sugar.

"You don’t enjoy the upper-crust life?" Grell plopped down unceremoniously, her dark coat flourishing. She thought the Grim Reaper dress code of all black was rather tedious, but she had to admit the graceful whisking of several layers of dark fabric appealed to her.

"Oh, no. The pampering is delightful. But it gets _old,”_ Angelina whined. She was quite juvenile for a woman in her early thirties. Not necessarily repulsive or unappealing, just another strange quality. "It’s so much more fun here. You could do anything here, really, and no one would know who you are and no one would care." She spread the cheese about the bread and began breaking it into small pieces.

Angelina paused for a moment, looking up in thought. "I suppose it’s quite the rich woman’s view of East End."

“People here die too quickly," Grell said exasperatedly. "It’s a nuisance those of my…profession."

"Say, what is your profession? What are you, really? I just know your name is Grell Sutcliff, you are not human, and you have an affinity for jumping off of roofs for the sake of a dramatic entrance." Angelina raised her eyebrows as she chewed. "Am I wrong?"

Grell chuckled. "Well, no." She sighed. _There was no explicit rule about revealing the world of Grim Reapers to a human, no?_ She'd done if before. Yes, the human boy - _was it Thomas?_ \- ended up dead, but she would soon be too. It wouldn't matter.

“I believe I told you we’re called several names, but we call ourselves Grim Reapers. We…assist in the deaths of humans. Review their memories, judge them worthy or not of reincarnation, if not, collect their souls.”

“Worthy? Pray tell, it’s been ages since I’ve stumbled upon anything remotely interesting.”

“If we think the world would be dramatically changed by your continued existence, whether positive or negative, we’ll let you cheat death. Queen Victoria, perhaps, or Moses, say.”

“Say,” Madame Dalles leaned forward in her seat and smiled provocatively, “would I be worthy of this second chance, if I died right now? If, I don’t know, I choked on a piece of bread and died this instance?”

Grell sucked on her bottom lip for a moment, considering everything she knew about the strange woman sitting across from her as her jagged shark-like teeth dug into the skin on her lips. “This is something no one likes to hear, but probably… _no.”_

Surprisingly, Angelina didn’t seem upset. She just leaned back in her chair, sipping her cheap coffee, and tipped her head to one side so wisps of crimson hair brushed her exposed neck. “Pray tell.” Her voice lilted with curiosity.

“Yes, you are a noblewoman, and a unique one for pursuing a higher education, but at the end of the day…you’re replaceable.” Grell exhaled. She’d never really explained these processes to anyone before, and no one had to her, either. She just lived with it. Grell wasn’t the inquisitive type; if she was, she probably wouldn’t be stuck in this grand disorder.

“If you died, the hospital would hire a new doctor. And I’m assuming that besides your nephew, you have no remaining family?” Grell hated to put things so bluntly – she was always the type of girl who went in circles to avoid facing things head on.

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

“Hm?” Grell was wondering if the doctor was actually getting sentimental about her puny life with a stranger she’d just slept with last night.

“My nephew. He’s missing. Presumed dead.” The baroness bowed her head and bit her lip, rubbing off the carmine so meticulously painted onto her layers and layers of red. “Gone since December.”

Angelina sighed deeply and put down her coffee. She folded her hands together, propping her elbows up on the table, and stared down at her measly lunch.

Grell raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. So Angelina did have some…emotional issues.

“For what it’s worth…I’m sorry.”

What was this disgusting, grimy city doing to her? Grell Sutcliff, a god of death, apologizing? To a human?

“It doesn’t matter,” Angelina said promptly as she stood, brushing the crumbs off. “Come on, we’re murderers. We have better things to do than sit here reminiscing over nothing.”

“Darling, isn’t that what makes us murderers?”


	10. x: forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: slight slut-shaming, anti-choice mentions, implied alcoholism

It turns out Angelina’s idea of not sitting around and reminiscing over nothing was kissing in a grimy alley behind the hospital. Certainly not Grell’s idea of real fun – _bloodshed was entertaining to twisted creatures like them, who saw through shattered and warped glass, so only the worst parts of reality were visible_ – but it was unexpected, and that was what made Angelina so compelling.

The warmth of a mother, the brains of a doctor, the elegance of a noblewoman, the passion of a lover, the rage of a killer.

A truly multifaceted woman, a jewel of a human being.

They said diamonds were a girl’s best friend. But rubies were Grell’s.

“What are we doing?” Not a disappointed or rejecting tone, just Grell’s confusion.

No answer. Her breath smelled like strong whiskey, even though Grell had yet to see her consume any form of alcohol. She did seem the kind of person who drank only hard liquor, strong enough to make her forget.

“Well, what are _you_ doing?” Now Grell was beginning to sound judgmental.

Angelina flicked back one of several wisps of silky crimson hair. “Killing time.”

“Is this,” – Grell gestured vaguely at the air between them – “am I a distraction to you?” She wasn’t angry, simply curious. She was used to being thrown around like a rag doll by those she loved – _William, oh how she loved him and how she hated him– surely she was numb to this sort of treatment after centuries of torment. At least, that’s what she told herself._

“I loved a man once.”

Grell wasn’t sure what this had to do with anything, but she didn’t have the heart to question Angelina.

“He was one of the Queen’s most trusted. He visited my father often. I don’t know if he was looking for a bride, but he left with one.” She said all this while looking at the bleak London fog.

Was this the Baron Burnett?

“I hated my hair. I wanted nothing but to look like my sister. But he-he” – Angelina’s brows furrowed in years-persistent confusion – “said I was beautiful, and _I believed him. I-I loved him,”_ – she was clearly distraught now –“but he became my sister’s betrothed.”

Angelina was trying to hide it, but the jealousy turned her face into marble. Cold, sallow, beautiful, lifeless.

“They married and had a son, and I became a doctor. I went to parties whenever I could, always in red because he said I looked best init. People began calling me Madame Red. And…I met a man at a party. Baron Burnett.”

So Angelina never loved her husband? Not uncommon among the upper class, but Grell saw Angelina as one who fell in love easily.

Then again, love was never easy.

“I told him I could not love him with everything, that there was a man I could never forget. He said he didn’t mind, and so we were married. I became pregnant. He loved me with all he had, and I was happy, even though I could not do the same for him.

"Then he died.”

Angelina exhaled, the broken shards of memory stabbing her lungs as she spoke.

“It was a carriage accident. The doctors had to remove my womb to save me, and my baby died.”

If they were normal lovers – _is lovers what they were?_ – Grell would have comforted her, Angelina would have cried freely, Grell would have told her some philosophical metaphorical shit. But they weren’t. So Grell just stood there.

“I was discharged from the hospital and was going to visit my sister for her son’s birthday. But the manor was burning. My sister’s and her husband’s bodies were mutilated by the fire. My nephew’s body could not be found. It was a massacre, they say.”

“What do _you_ say?” Grell inquired.

“What does it matter? Either way, they’re dead. But I still envied her. She died with her husband, she died _in love._ So I went threw myself into work.”

Ah, the interesting part. Her motive for killing.

“Many prostitutes came in for abortions. Some wanted to keep the child but simply could not afford it or had other complications. So I bit my tongue in jealousy and helped them, as it was my duty. But others…they simply _loathed_ children. I had lost everything, and they had it all, and they threw it away. So I killed. And I met you.

“So no. This isn’t a distraction. This isn’t love, or even lust. This is my descent into hell, and you happen to be a resident.”

 _There it was again._ The well-educated, self-made woman that clashed with the spontaneous, reckless murderer in her sleep each night.

However contrary Angelina was, her words were true.

Grell was already in hell, and each day was punishment for what she had done, what she was doing, what she would do. Her very existence, her very entity was a sin, a travesty of morality and order in the universe. It wasn’t her fault, not exactly, it was just that she chose to let it out in fear of suppressing it until it erupted. It had happened before, and she was terrified of it.

“But honestly, do you mind?”

Angelina suddenly strode forward and grabbed Grell’s shirt collar and kissed her. “No,” she whispered against Grell’s lips. Grell smirked, razor sharp teeth exposed so they skimmed on Angelina’s carmine-coated lips.

This kind of passion was what Grell yearned for. Self-destructive, impulsive, tragic, and macabre. The burning of strong alcohol with the stench of expensive perfumes. A taste of black coffee lingered on Angelina’s lips.

This was nothing like the virtuous reverie Grell had always imagined love to be, but this is all she would get and all she would take.

Like Angelina, there was a man she could not forget, a man who would never love her.

William.

But she didn’t want him to love her, not really. She enjoyed the tragic aestheticism of unrequited emotions, as pathetic as it was. Her only identity was the overemotional, brash freak-show who would always love those who despised her. Losing part of that, no matter how alleviating it would be, meant losing herself.

Grell didn’t ask Angelina if she was a distraction because she wanted them to mean something. It was because Grell herself was using this as a distraction, to avoid facing herself. Neglecting them wouldn’t help, but at least it felt like it did.

They both loved those who had ruined them without even trying. Cold, calculating men who presented themselves as men who could be loved and could reciprocate that love. It was impossible.

 _Love_ itself was impossible.


	11. xi: monochrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change never becomes easier, even for immortals.

A choking flood of so much of the same.

Crimson locks. Garnet brooch. Burgundy velvet. Satin rose lips. The stench of whiskey and dried blood. The hyper-femininity of jasmine and cloves. A rustle of silk against leather.

No.

No, this was wrong.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

It was meant to be cold slate gray and unloving eyes, not fiery lips and maroon tresses.

It was meant to be placid, calculating bloodshed, not this ardently consuming slaughter.

It should have been a struggle, a tug-of-war, of love, of neither giving in, instead of this awfully wholehearted bestowing of a terrible freedom.

_\- stop_

_thinking –_

Too late.

Him.

It would always be him she went back to.

No matter how much he had hurt her, no matter how much she had hurt him.

No matter how little he felt for her or how she felt all the wrong things for him.

Angelina was a stupid woman.

She always wanted to take the long route of things. She had neither rationale nor control over her emotions. She purposely fell for men who broke her heart. She took no precautions with her killing, not even bothering to sweep the scene for possible traces of evidence. Her motives and targets were glaringly obvious, without the slightest effort to conceal them.

What Grell felt for Angelina was a contemptuous fascination, not unlike the way the affluent and the privileged loved to go downtown to see the spectacle that was the wretched and the helpless, or the way a villain loved to watch torture unfold for the sake of watching a miserable soul beg for mercy from whom could not and would not deliver.

But what she felt for _him_ was the opposite. She was the miserable when it came to him, like a dog begging and performing for a treat. But the master would bring the treat so close, only to snatch it away. Whether this provoking was intentional or not _– it was, it always was –_ the loyal creature only wished to see the best in its master, and continued the cruel game, playing along while its heart was being wrenched out. It would promise itself, no, I do not enjoy this, I will stop but _it never would._ Not out of love, but out of weakness.

But honestly, what was the difference?

“Love is an awful thing, isn’t it,” Grell murmured against Angelina’s lips. She felt her shark-like teeth graze against the other woman’s mouth and tasted blood.

Angelina drew back for a moment, nearly knocking her head against the grimy brick wall of the alley.

“Let’s see. The man I love fell in love with my sister, then the man I married and my child died, and finally, my sister and her family died,” Angelina said in a deadpan voice, clearly not entertained by Grell's humor, or lack thereof.

She suddenly pushed Grell back against the opposite wall and placed her hands on Grell’s hip bones that jutted out through the fabric of her trousers. Their lips touched again and again but Angelina still focused on spreading her hands over Grell’s torso. She snatched something out of Grell’s jacket and abruptly broke off their kiss.

“Shit,” she muttered, looking at the object she’d taken. Her hand covered it, so Grell couldn’t tell what it was before Angelina stuffed it into a pocket. Angelina quickly pulled out a miniature hand mirror from the pocket and made sure she looked presentable. The doctor smoothed down the lines of her dress and stuck a few stray hairs back into place. And without another word, she set off out the alley.

Grell paused and ran fussily, her four-inch heeled boots clacking against the Whitechapel sidewalk.

“Excuse you!” Her voice rang out. Several humans turned at the brassy sound, but in London not much was unusual, so they turned back to their business. “If you’re going to leave, at least give me back whatever you stole!”

“It was your watch, you ignoramus!” Angelina called out without bothering to turn around. “I have to get back to work. Catch.”

She tossed the rather expensive pocket watch with unexpected precision, and Grell caught the flying silver streak hastily.

“What am I supposed to do, then?”

Angelina turned, the feminine sharp-but-not-too-sharp corner of her jaw exposed.

“You’re immortal, aren’t you? Figure something out.”

And with that, Grell was left to her own devices.

\--------------------

The thing about being part of the Retrieval Division was that the work would either rip your heart out and stomp all over it with your own best high heeled boots or put you to sleep so that said boots made you fall to your death.

For once, Grell had been hoping it would be latter. But nothing really went her way.

London was a metaphorical asylum for Grim Reapers. They, the glacially immortal, could escape in the clash of the East and West End. From the Palace of Westminster and Oxford Street of West London to the opium dens and brothels of the East End, there was something for every creature, even those whose only purpose was to drift between the worlds. Speaking of East London, Grell was at a brothel now. And not just for the sex. Well, that too.

Grell had often been told she needed to learn how to “blend in with the humans”, courtesy of a certain rudely handsome Management Division supervisor. Almost all Londoners had been the patron of a brothel before, so why not? Besides, Grell became bored easily.

Grell safely tucked her beloved chainsaw away in a niche of the alley and felt kind of guilty. She slowly sashayed towards the brothel’s door. Rich drunken men were stumbling outside, using it an excuse to cling to their escorts’ more…brimful parts. The escorts were obviously annoyed to be dealing with drunkards during midday, but kept their voices honey-sweet and their hands gentle.

Grell had always carried a sort of respect for prostitutes. They had to deal with the worst sorts of people with a seductive smile. Of course, Angelina had killed a few with Grell’s help.

She threw open the door without restraint and paraded in the brothel, cat-walking almost heel to toe. Grell was mildly disenchanted when she turned less than ten heads. Then again, most of the girls were busy with their bourgeoisie customers.

A curly-haired brunette in a garish dress promenaded up to her. “How may I help you, sir?”

Grell would let it slide for now.

“Who’s your best?” She cut straight to the chase, her brows arching slightly in impatience.

The young woman’s eyes sharpened somewhat in distaste. “That would have to be Miss Gwendoline. Would you like me to fetch her?” 

Jealousy, then.

“Yes, thank you.”

The girl walked down a hall with a disgustingly exaggerated sashay. Grell crossed her lissome arms, leaning back against the wall. A few male customers looked at her immorally. She stared back and leered to show her honed teeth. They turned away slowly in fear.

A handsome woman approached Grell. She was dressed in elegant deep cornflower blues and smoky dove with jewels here and there. She was rather tall for a prostitute, only a few inches shorter than Grell. Her dark hair, green eyes, and strong bone structure would have looked strange on anyone else, but they looked striking and sophisticated on her.

She extended a hand. “Gwendoline Scott. Pleasure to meet you…Mister…?”

“Miss. Sutcliff.”

“Forgive my bluntness, but for a miss you dress quite masculine.” Grell could see why men liked Gwendoline. What could have been contempt she pulled off as unrelated remarks.

“And forgive mine, but you dress quite elegantly for a prostitute.” Grell did love a good flirtatious banter.

“The more lecherous men I serve, the more money I earn. It’s a price I’m willing to pay.” She was so similar to Angelina in mannerisms, it almost hurt. They were both crass yet poised, with unconventional careers. Well, sex work was not nearly as eccentric as murder.

“Come, come, we have work to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, etc. are very appreciated here. *wink*


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